


Someday

by veronicasalanderblack



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, cross-dressing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-22 03:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7418197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronicasalanderblack/pseuds/veronicasalanderblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is a writer with history. Tom is a business man with history of dealing with Harry's history. Luna is a dear. Albus is a great man.<br/>Oh, Nagini is a cat, and Hedwig is Harry's favourite puppy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after a serious and laughable situation. In a spur of madness, I finished the story. English isn't my first language, so please do pardon me for any mistakes. I appreciate your contribution, so thank you and enjoy the work.

Someday, Tom feels like his heart is on fire.

 

 

The whole split-up and get-back arrangement with Harry is a crazy idea. Tom is overly obsessed with the green-eye man, while the writer tries to drown himself with his little love  stories. ‘Adventures’, Tom remarks darkly, pushing the apartment door with his elbow since his hands are full of groceries.

Well, he doesn’t scream, but that is a close call. Harry is sprawling on the couch, with dozens of paper planes surrounding him. Tom carefully places the bags on the kitchen counter before slowly approaching his friend?crush?housemate?. He notices dry tear marks on Harry’s pale cheeks, and blows a deep breath out.

“Harry?”

Said man’s head lolls back on the deep blue pillow, as Harry resurfaces from his daze. Tom swallows when there is no response from Harry, and almost has a heart attack when the raven hair man rolls out of the couch, lands directly on his mess of papers.

Tom sighs. This time, no matter what is going on in Harry’s little head, is on Code 9. He lays down next to Harry, tries not to crush any planes. Harry will kill him if he does.

A bony hand crawls on Tom’s chest, and lithe body glues itself on Tom’s side. The taller man presses down a full body shudder as Harry nuzzles his neck like a big cat, small warm breaths caressing his neck. Twilight falls, pouring hazy purple and bright yellow lines on the window, floating playfully on the ground before dissolves into a miracle blend of colours on their bodies. A dove flies past the sky, its shadow cuts through the illuminating sky like a streak of black paint, accidentally snatches Tom out of his thoughts.

He places a tremble hand on Harry’s waist, pulls the smaller man up. Harry’s eyes are half-opened, the glinting green greets him mischievously. Tom sighs again, fingers circle the small back of his friend.

“Did you know…”, Harry finally speaks, voice cracks up like he just finished a screaming match with their cat Nagini (which happens really often, Tom gets used to it by now). The raven man stops, eyes shut and lips moving barely. His eyebrows all scrunch up in deep thought, no doubt organizing his swaying words that swimming and diving around all day. Tom simply waits, keeps his posture relax and harmless, only a tiny split of teeth clamping on inner cheeks betrays his calming present.

It’s Harry’s turn to sigh, dropping his cold nose on Tom’s chin.

“Ginny and I had lunch.”

Tom grumbles, acknowledges the information. Damn, whoever asides from her must be dead by the time Harry spoke.

“And?”

“She asked me to help her planning her wedding.”

Tom doesn’t smile, but his heart leaps and starts pounding vigorously against his ribcage. How wonderful, how brilliant it is. The redhead girl finally gets married, after years and years getting back to his dearest housemate?friend?love of his life? and moving on with other blokes. How wonderful, how…

A small sob wakes Tom from his victorious glory. He looks down on Harry’s head, which is now sinking in the fabric of his shirt.

“Harry?”, Tom asks softly, hands rubbing soothingly on Harry’s back while dreadful feelings gnawing on his lungs.

Suddenly, Harry leaps, pushing Tom on his back. The older man freezes when Harry crawls on all four on him, tears splashing down uncontrollably. By pure instinct, Tom wraps his hand on Harry’s waist, holds his breaths as the younger man leans down, eyes bore to his very rotten soul.

“I think I have a plot bunny.”

“What?”, Tom breathes out, suddenly feels exhausted. What the freaking freaky was that?

 

 

To sum, Harry is a writer.

Well, not exactly. Tom Riddle and Harry Potter were arch-enemies in kinder garden, elementary and high school. They somehow ended up as acquaintances when Harry came out as bisexual in the middle of his presentation on Chem. class, and Tom later on spat out the truth that he enjoys fucking men more than women, effectively crushing every girl’s hearts in the radius of 100 miles around him.

They were first members of the LGBTQ community in Hogwarts University as well, became the “shining, shimmering splendid” figures of bravery and equality for everyone (really, Tom should not watch that much Disney movies with Harry). They bickered a lot like an old married couple, and after “it”, Tom swept Harry off his feet (literally) and threw the smaller man in the very same apartment as they own now.

Strangely enough, no one ever asks.

Harry wasn’t a writer then, per see. He was a football star at first, all glorious image of a super jock in a regular high school drama. Lots of girls were swooning around, lots of parties and chick flick breakups. Then “The Great Closet Bang”, as Ron Weasley always, secretly loving it, said, happened in Ms.Umbridge class. Harry almost got expelled, but a few favours here and there (combined with the fact that Harry saved the football team’s ass all the time) had plucked the green eye man out of trouble. Later on, Harry was in the fencing club. Then volleyball team. One day, the twins dragged him to the pool and Harry loved it for about three months before giving up. Tom kept tracks on Harry’s activities before, stunningly so, realized that the said boy was sprawling on the table, trying to finish the outline of a crayon painting. It was shit anyway.

Then music club, with more incidents with the trumpet and bass guitar. Then dancing club when Tom felt such burning jealousy before the ogling eyes of boys and girls while Harry swung his hips in slow, sensual circles; eyes half-opened in a teasing manner.

‘All mine’, Tom mused darkly, because no one has ever stayed with Harry for a long time. Ginevra Weasley was a remarkable exception, since she was the first love (and first fuck) of the Golden Boy. However, Tom enjoyed the idea that he was Harry’s last shelter, by all means. He rescued Harry from awkward blind dates, even baited the raven man from jail for graffiti painting near churches and police stations. Tom smiled and scared all pretty girls that stalk Harry’s cute face when he was working as a barista in a small café, and even “executed” some dickheads who tried to take Harry to their beds.

Then Harry did “it”. Went terribly wrong, even in Tom’s standards. So Tom closed his eyes, threatened a few people here and there to take Harry out of that gory place. He fed the smaller man, bathed and brought him to doctors and advisors. When no one but the old fool Dumbledore helped him to save Harry from nightmares and anxiety attacks, Tom grunted in his most polite way as possible, thanked the old Headmaster and locked Harry in his apartment for months with no contact, except to Lucius who ran the business for Tom.

One day, Harry wrote on Tom’s hands with a small red crayon: “Thank you”. His nightmares stopped.

And if Tom hadn’t felt in love with Harry before, he would have been very, very certain of that now.

 

 

 

They started with crayons. Small, pretty crayons that scratched gently on white papers. Harry would draw first in the heading with flowing presses of colours. He liked to use red and yellow, sometimes a wicked shade of blue and hazelnut. For Tom, he used green and black crayon on little morning notes, shyly hidden in the taller man’s pocket or under the pillow. He wrote, not in the monstrous handwriting of the Golden Boy, but in the round, curvy handwriting like children’s. When he was ready to use the bathroom alone, Tom bought him a typewriter and taught him how to use all fingers to type. A year past and Harry smiled at the new laptop, attacking writer blocks and constant hunger of something fresh and vibrant. Tom sent his first paper to a well-known publishing house and sat closely to Harry as the editors spilled nonsense things about it. Harry’s work became famous, scarily so. For the first time, Harry hid his wet eyes on Tom’s cheek, hoarsely murmured a simple “thank you”.

To sum, Tom is a busy business man. While Harry returns to his normal self day by day, Tom buries himself in mountains of paperwork. His company had started out small, but it surely didn’t go unnoticed for the past years. Tom is filthy rich, still, he never has the slightest thought of moving out of their apartment. It has been always “him and Harry”, and Tom will fight tooth and nail with anyone tries to separate them but Harry himself. Only the non-consent of Harry can break his fortress, and let his most guarded treasure leave. No one will ever speak, or look, or even think about Harry in a non-platonic way without facing the calming rage of Tom Marvolo Riddle. No one ever did before.

Well, except for Ginevra Weasley. For some reasons, Harry always (like always, with the same tranquil calm as Luna Lovegood’s) knows Tom’s plotting to get rid of all Weasley in the world. And oh how the mighty has fallen before the sight of an upset Harry, how pathetic and weak and just right it is.

Tom is madly obsessed with Harry, there’s no argument. Love and obsession are, basically, the same. Tom loves Harry – it is just simple like that.

Well, except for now, maybe. Harry won’t stop crying even after dinner, and bath, and their cuddle session. The tears keep rolling down and freak Tom out of his bones, frankly.

 

 

 

“ ’Ello’”

“Granger, you must help me.”, Tom hisses on the phone, glancing at the slumber figure on their bed, “That bloody bi-baby redhead did something and Harry won’t. Stop. Crying. I’m freaking out. It's a Code 9.”

Hermione sits up alarmed on her bed, shooing Crookshank out of her table lamp. The cat mewls annoyingly before snuggling in her blanket. It’s a little bit after 12.

“Have you tried to talk to…”

“Yes I did, obviously”, Hermione rolls her eyes at the response, carefully puts on her slippers, “He doesn’t sob or wail. He just let his eyes open and causes flood over my pillow. What should I do now?”

“Well”, the brunette yawns, “have you tried hot milk?”

“With marshmallows. The green one. And lots of that awful pink lollipops.”

Hermione’s eyes widens. Oh, this is worse than she thought.

“Padfoot?”

“That goddamn toy is with him, Granger, I tried…”

“You?”

There is silence. Hermione bites her smile.

“I see no point in doing that, Granger”, Tom whisper-yells at the phone behind closed door, pinching the bridge of his nose, “He isn’t over Weaslette and she is asking him to plan her wedding. I swear to heavenly hell I’ll….”

Hermione can’t help it. She giggles, barely covers her mouth before the full laughter escape. Riddle keeps rambling madly on the phone while she opens her window a bit, watching the silent night sky with amusement running in her mind.

“Just sleep with him, Riddle.”

“What?”

Tom almost looses his grip on the phone.

“Not that kind of sleeping, you horny pervert. Hold him, cuddle him. Sing a lullaby. I’ll talk with Ginny tomorrow, tell him it’s ok. You know, comfort him. Kiss him for all god’s sake I can cut your sexual tension with my nails.”

“Shhh you woman.”, Tom warns, eyes flickering to the bedroom door, “We are housemates. I take care of him and he isn’t interested in me. I’m going to call Severus.”

Hermione brittles, but lets it go. Snape can do this better than them.

“All right, good night then. Text me later, Riddle.”

“Sure sure.”

Tom puts the phone away and slowly opens the door. Harry is on his side, comforters and blankets form a giant pool around him. His breathing is even.

Letting out a small huff, Tom climbs on the bed. When he manages to get into the pool, Harry latches on his side like an octopus, blinking owlishly.

“You’re back.”

Tom’s heart doesn’t melt. It starts a full bungee jump.

“Yes. Go to sleep, Harry.”

Harry nods, then opens his mouth again.

“Did you know what a demon says to a sneezing angel?”

“What?”

Harry giggles. “Bless you.”

 

 

 

They don’t kiss. Or have sex. Or talk about their future. Harry constantly seeking for his muses in everywhere, and returns to Tom’s arms with a broken heart and new ideas for the new book. He lives on adrenaline, the purest chemical that springs from dangers. He finds the tragedy beautiful, and often watches sad-ending stories or movies for inspiration. His books, however, are funny and happy, in a twisted and unnerving way that teenagers go wild on and on. An unstable man writes unstable stories that satisfy a so called stable crowd.

Tom finds himself in almost every stories of Harry. A hero. A cold blood assassin. A king that kills his daughters in a spur of madness. A dark wizard tries to prove that he is supreme, far better than the rotten people beneath his shoes. A lone boy gets trapped in a snake pit, dreaming of flying dragons and singing sirens.

A man who loves, and be loved by his unrequited lover.

Tom is a realistic man. Still, he allows himself the luxury to bask in the caressing of imagination. That Harry and him are more than just friends. More than lovers.

 

 

 

He doesn’t say anything when Harry climbs off the bed, hairs messy and fluffy, eyes glistering with tears. Tom holds Harry on the kitchen table, getting ink stains on his throat and pants.

If Harry wants it, he will give it to the emerald eyes man.

 

 

 

Tom never knows love. Living as an orphan ensures that he is stripped from emotions. He is acquainted with hatred, hunger and fear. Obsession, manipulation and seduction. Possession leaves a tangy taste on his tongue, as he conquers the humans. Such vile, petty creatures. So easy, so boring and mundane.

Harry is different. Harry understands the concept, but he denies love. He thinks that he doesn’t deserved to be loved, or saved, or protected. Living as an orphan does that to people’s mind, lowers their self-esteem till they have nothing left but a guarded tower of their old selves. Harry knows devotion. He knows loyalty and contribution. Desire and content. He knows heart-broken feeling that burn him, slowly devour his flesh and bones and sanity, leaving a hollow corpse to Harry. To Tom.

Tom. Tom Riddle. Tom Marvolo Riddle. Such beauty, such grace. Such a nice man. The only anchor of Harry Potter. The Great Savior.

Harry smiles, cracks open a new notebook. He shall name it “The Diary”.

 

 

 

 

“Harry?”

“In here.”

There is no light but soft orange halo of candles lighting up their home. Tom huffs at the sight of Nagini chasing tennis balls around the living room, and Harry drapes himself on the armchair with a pile of honeyed apples next to him. Music – the new album of “Of Monsters And Men” – breathes lazily in the background, as Tom sitting down next to Harry. A new, sudden voice shoot up, ringing through Tom’s ears. Harry’s voice.

_“The cat’s silhouette as big as a monster_

_In this concrete jungle_

_With street light hanging their heads”_

Waggling his eyebrows, Harry melts on Tom’s lap. The taller man catches Harry’s hips to stable him, and Harry laughs, joyous sounds blasting through the sweet whispers of the singer.

_“So love me…”_

Their lips meet. First, it is a peek-a-boo of surprise. Tom’s eyes darken; he tightens his grip on Harry as a warning, a merciful open for escaping. Harry kisses him again, full on the mouth like an unspoken submission. He gives his heart to Tom.

They kisses till their lips are burnt and swollen. Nagini is long gone, probably running in the kitchen with her new toy. The music has stopped for a while, and street lights lit Harry’s eyes up in a miracle hue of orange and green. Tom shifts, pulls Harry with him until they lay on the carpet, chest to chest and heart to heart.

Harry can’t wait for his next sorrow.

 

 

 

 

“Can we have sex?”

Tom doesn’t choke on his breathing, no he doesn’t.

Harry is curling up against Tom’s back, arms intertwine with his blanket in a twist burrito (Tom adores his human burrito, so so much this way). His hair is all flossy after being blown dry, the phone is blasting news and reviews about Harry’s newest book “The Red Dancer” next to his ears.

Harry lifts his eyelashes, blinking coyly at the sight of Tom gaping next to the bathroom door. He giggles when the taller man closes his mouth, blushing furiously. Oh joy, the Sex God of Hogwarts is blushing like a schoolgirl seeing her crush.

Deliciously tempting.

Tom shakes his head, feeling hot blood running to the south and spreading over his cheeks. Damn Harry and his innocent act.

“No, Harry.”

Harry hides his face behind the pink pillow, feels the rejection raging up in his chest. The chemical reaction fuels his spinning thought, and ideas, passion, voices flowing uncontrollably like a broken dam.

There is something tragically mesmerizing in the pain that Harry swallows happily. He jumps off the bed, dragging his blanket like a long coat with every step. Tom stands still when Harry runs past him, a bewildered expression find its way on Tom’s aristotle face.

‘Here we go again’, Tom murmurs, chasing Harry to the office on bare feet.

 

 

 

 

He found the smaller man towering on discarding paper, hands clutching the brown colour pencil in such tight grip that his veins pop up like spider web. Harry hums, a distasteful melody escaping his throat, reminds Tom of wounded animal crouching in the corner, teeth snarling and furs ruffling up in a frightening manner. But the thing that scares Tom the most is Harry’s eyes – bright and dark, reflecting the light and oozing hatred on paper. The pencil snaps loudly, leaving brown powder on his fingers. Harry bares his teeth, annoyed and terrified somehow. He snatches another pencil, this time a bright purple one, and continues to scribe down. The room falls in a cold calming silence, barely hides such incredible frustration that bubbling in every sharp movement of Harry. The broken pencil rolls off the table, clanking briefly inside the trashcan. Completely forgotten.

Tom growls, and Harry snaps out of his craze. Their eyes meet before Harry returns to his writing, horrified of the swirling words that spills in overflowing waves. He stumbles out of his chair, lips tremble. Tom catches Harry before he falls, carries him back to their bedroom, soothingly peppering kisses on the green eye man’s eyes, nose, forehead and cheeks. Harry circles his arms onto Tom’s neck, buries his face in the turtleneck collar.

A small sob breaks out, and Tom’s heart feels like on fire.

 

 

 

 

Harry is unstable. The amount of pills that he consumes in order to hang out with his friend and take a bath is amazingly frightening. Tom’s kitchen is well-stocked of cocoa powder and sugary treats to save Harry from sugar dropout, and a dozen brands of herbal tea for nightmares aftershock. Harry is fragile and pliant, but his posture is iron and gold whenever Tom finds him waking at early morning, eyes blinking blankly at the decorated wall of their home. Someday, Harry closes his mouth shut, pretending not to hear a word from Tom’s pestering in breakfast or dinner, knocking down glass after glass of milk and honeyed water for hours. Someday, Harry keeps himself busy with Nagini, knitting kitten booties and small flower dresses for their cat. Luna comes in thrice a week, helping Harry with his therapy and drawings. She once delivered a star paper cutting, and when Tom got home, he almost fainted at the sight of his beloved copy of “Macbeth” lined up with tiny star-shaped holes. A few times Harry engages in a screaming match with Hermione, which often ends with thirteen pages of writing that absolutely have nothing to do with negative feelings. Harry throws their tennis ball around the house and chases it with Nagini. Harry draws roses with black marker on the bathroom door. Harry replaces Tom’s favourite coffee with ground pepper, usually resulting in a small wrestling on the kitchen floor that only ends with serious make out session. Harry does things that scream “Psycho” with capitalized P, but Tom loves him anyway.

In fact, Tom gets used with crazy events that he no longer bats an eyelash at unexpected situations at work. They call him the Dark Lord, ruthless and steady in storms.

It has its peaks, per see.

 

 

 

 

Tom finally surrenders after two months. The sight of Harry all flushed and writhing underneath him isn’t a proper image. Harry strikes, deadly and fast like a viper. Tom conquers, all alpha male and thirsty for dominance. They fight, playfully and more than that, from the living room to the bathroom, and end up on their bed, naked and aroused. Harry bites on Tom’s shoulder as the taller man pushes him down on the cover, gritting his teeth to draw blood. Tom hisses, the sinful sound goes straight to Harry’s cock, making him all hot and excited.

Then Tom ties Harry on the bed, eyes bleeding to a dark red colour, crossing the smaller man’s legs around his waist. Harry shivers, wiggles his bum on Tom’s thighs, breathing in staccato. A single drop of blood falls from his opened lips, tins red on pale clavicle.

“Having fun, mister Potter?”

Harry smirks toothily, seems to be on drugs at the moment. His brows are wet with sweat.

“Claim me, Alpha”, he purrs, hips rolling over and over. Tom shakes his head and Harry’s gut churns deliciously. A rejection.

“No.”, Tom replies, face blank. He presses his index finger on Harry’s swollen mouth. “We’ll take this slow.”

Harry screams, tries to break the grip of Tom’s hands on his knees. He doesn’t want any vanilla sex, or sweet love making. He wants the fight, the dominance, the cruelty and violence. Harry wants to break Tom’s mask, riles his lover to destroy Harry by all means.

“I don’t want to be slow.”, the green eye male spits out, tossing in a desperate, hopeless belief of escaping. He snarls and claws at the silk ties, tears already swell up.

Tom simply waits, his eyes doesn’t leave Harry’s for a second.

 

 

 

“Please,”, Harry begs when Tom swallows him unexpectedly. The dark eye man manages to smirks around Harry’s cock, tongue swirling slowly, torments Harry to dissolve into a mess of pleasure. Tom’s fingers are hot needles and satin, as they running vocariously on Harry’s body, pressing here and there, a dangerous twist on his nipples. Harry mewls when he reaches climax, his bones liquefied and his head melted.

Tom hasn’t finished. He holds Harry tenderly, sweetly pleasures the smaller man while his own erection strained against his pants. When Harry finally passes out, Tom takes a long, cold shower, and returns to take care of Harry.

They call in at work in the morning, and spend time painting Nagini’s claws. She isn’t amused much.

 

 

 

Few weeks later, Harry goes home with the whitest puppy that Tom has ever seen before.

“Harry, what on earth is that?”

“It’s a dog, Tom. Come on, you’re the smart one here. I’m going to call her Hedwig.”

Tom arches an eyebrow, opens his mouth just to be cut in by Harry’s glare.

“And before you ask, dearest Tom, who the hell names their cat Nagini?”

Nagini mewls as the bloody puppy approaches her. Harry smiles happily at the sight.

“See, they are friends. Do show some cooperation, Tom.”

Then Hedwig pushes Nagini down the stairs, and Tom laughs at Harry’s horrified expression.

 

 

 

 

Lucius gifts Tom a small package after his family trip to some fancy places. Harry tears the paper with excitement, before the light dies out in his eyes. It is coffee.

Tom carefully grounds and brews. The rich, bitter flavour is bursting on his tongue at the first sip, and Tom moans softly. Sinfully delicious.

There is silence. When Tom looks up from his cup, Harry’s eyes are widened, a pretty blush adorns his cheeks.

" Tom?"

"Yes, dear."

“What was that?”

Tom blinks slowly, an idea springs to life.

“That”, he speaks, stops for a dramatic effect. Harry looks too cute like this. “is love at the first taste.”

“No way.”, Harry breathes, pouting miserably. Tom tilts his head, shrugs shortly before raising his cup again.

“Nooooo~ooooo”. Harry wails, batting his eyelashes and clutching Hedwig to his heart while lying on the floor. His pancake pile is untouched.

Tom rolls his eyes so hard that he might lose one eye from spraining muscles.

 

 

 

There are too many people. The headache is killing Harry, but he smiles at the camera, gripping Tom’s hand till their knuckles turn white. It is the first time that Harry comes out to the world as the father of the series “Unknown”, which breaks through internet like wildfire after publishing 100 copies in their hometown. People go crazy for the dramatic, but realistic flare of Harry’s stories. Like Tom said, an unstable man write unstable stories that fuel and feed the hunger of a stable crowd.

Disgustingly sweet victory for them.

Harry lets go of Tom’s hands, quietly asking for his speech. Tom nods, gracefully walks away toward the refreshing counter. He goes back to his seat later, eyes not leaving his young lover. Seeing Harry on the stage, talking fast and coolly at the pathetic crowd makes Tom’s heart swelled with such filthy desire. He hides them like a furious beast chained to a cage, yearning, waiting and plotting as Harry smiles innocently – making the girls all hot and bothered, no doubt. Tom’s little monster, all sharp and elegant. Tom’s only.

Lovegood appears next to him, startles Tom for a mere second. They were at the same side when it comes to take care of Harry, when everything crashed and tumbled down, Luna held a serene authority that protected both men from depression and lost battles. She is a dear friend to Harry, and so, Luna has her place as Tom’s most trust minion (“Friend”, Harry chastises lightly, “Luna is a friend.”).

And the fact that her loony self suits well with her intrigued paintings. Harry and Luna are invincible at making people go insane with their creativity. If Harry’s words is a fiery sword that slashes through the veil of mundane truth, Luna’s paintings is a mirror that reflect human’s most exotic perspectives. They are in sync with insanity and abnormality. They thrive together, and while Tom is Harry’s only anchor to stability, the snob Malfoy chains Luna to the ground with his understanding.

Speaking of whom, Draco Malfoy walks toward the couple. The blond nods respectfully at Tom before kissing his girlfriend’s cheek. Luna smile dreamily, her pale celestial eyes are sparkling lightly when they all look up to the stage. Harry is signing his books now, the soft scratches are lost in the exciting whispers and giggles of those teenage girls.

Tom presses his shoulders down, tries to relax. There’s no need to be scare, Harry is doing fine.

That, until Ginevra Weasley (dear lord forgives Tom, for he is about to sin) appears at the table with a copy of “Powerless", leaning coyly against the poster to show off her low-cut dress. Her wedding ring is missing. Harry stops breathing. Tom leaps, slides through the room with the air of danger before stops on track, eyes widen.

Harry raises an eyebrow, smiles and tears the whole book cover apart. The guards take Ginny out before any cameras can catch a picture, and Tom blows out a small sigh.

Little monster, indeed.

 

 

 

Harry doesn’t hate the Weasley, per see. He is close with the twins and Bill, and Charlie is a good brother.

But Ginny, whom he loved dearly, treated him like a puppet. Since “it”, she kept getting back to Harry, then broke his heart with her new affair. Tom believes that she must rot in hell, while Harry…

Well, Harry didn’t say anything when she got married. Things has changed ever since. Harry is off his rocket and insecure, so Ginny took advantage on that, reminding him of the unloved history in the orphanage. Harry lived on pain and heroin patches and broken promises that she gave him, before Tom put an end to it.

Still, she is someone Tom cannot destroy, or else Harry would be terribly upset.

The damages had been done. Harry is a psychopathic masochist, getting high on sad endings and sugar like a suicide kid. He writes with his blood (sometimes it is literal), then weeps and drowns himself in Tom’s love. It is an agreement as first, Tom being an arrogant man who thinks of Harry as a experiment, and Harry being a slut for affection.

Then Tom broke first, Harry followed suit. They love each other anyway.

 

 

 

 

“How are you feeling, my boy?”

Tom scowls at the name, says nothing. Harry is swinging his feet underneath the table, a habit shows that he is upset. Deeply. Tom doesn’t like that at all.

“I don’t feel so well, Albus.”, Harry replies honestly, because lying is for children, “I met Ginny at my event yesterday.”

The old coot blinks behind the eclipse glasses.

“Ah, young missus Zabini. She is a friend of you, right Harry?”

“Was, sir.”

Dumbledore hums, glancing at Tom. The taller man bites his inner cheeks to keep his insults still, leaving the room after a small pat on Harry’s shoulder.

The door closes, then Harry slumbers down the armchair, groaning.

“Lemon sherbet, my boy?”

“No thank you, sir.”, Harry chirps, grabbing his chocolate bar from the inner pocket of his coat. They sit in comfortable silence before the old man sighs, gesturing to Harry to speak.

“Tom doesn’t want to have sex with me.”

Albus smiles. Still Harry, even after “it” and long, long years living with the Riddle boy.

“You don’t seem to enjoy it. Why is that, my boy?”

“He pleasures me, sir, and we love every minute of it. But he never wants me to return the favour. He spoils me so much, such a caring man.”, Harry throws his knees up, remembers to take off his shoes before curling in the chair. “He doesn’t have any affairs, so Tom hasn’t have proper sex in three years. Three freaking years. I wonder when will he give up and fuck me silly, or keep his virgin ass intact forever and forever.”

Pausing to munch on his candy, Harry sighs.

“And he smiled at Hedwig when she chewed his shoes. Smiled, not smirked or grinned. I started freaking out when he gave her the other shoe as well, those shoes are ugly, I know, but he smiled. Handsomely so. I am thinking of replacing his shampoo with purple dye like the video on YouTube. Oh oh, and I bought some new clothes for both of us, you see, the movie “The Danish Girl” was really persuasive…..”

Harry talks and talks, chewing on his third lollipops when Albus writes down his journal. The Potter man is healthier, and less insane than he was. A little off here and there is completely fine, still, Albus needs to check the worst wound.

“And how about your inspiration, Harry dear?”

Said man shuts his mouth with an audible click. Harry’s shoulder are tense.

“I..er..I-I don’t know.”

Albus waits. They have 5 minutes left.

Courage seems to win the fight. When Harry looks up, he speaks slowly, but the words are clear.

“I don’t need the pain to write anymore, sir. Well, maybe a little when my Mariana needs a plot twist – we can’t have rainbows and bunnies all the time, do we? I-I start to play music, you know. Lana Del Rey, Halsey, or movie soundtracks in the background. It calms me and makes me feel sleepy, so I just…”

Harry pauses, swallows a chunk of crystallized strawberries.

“Just what, dear boy?”

“Let it go.”, Harry whispers, green eyes sparks like emeralds. A heavy weight has been lifted from his head.

 

 

 

Tom lifts his head off the closed door. His heart drops, and the bubble of joy tastes divine against his dry throat.

 

 

 

 


	2. The Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's another chapter. It's not very good, but still, I hope you will enjoy it.

Someday, Harry feels nothing.

 

The cool breezes greet him with a slide of sound against his bare skin. He feels heavy and light at the same time. Loved, but easy to be forgotten.

There are words that spilling from his mouth. Ideas and flashes of dancing colours. Harry loves all of those loony moments in the early morning, with Tom’s warmth soothingly surrounds his cool skin. He sinks in the blanket cocoon, waiting for the soft kiss of dawn that presses firmly on his eyes, yearning and burning hot and hotter, until his lover pulls Harry into the shaded part of the bed. They fall asleep again.

 

 _“Call it anything_ ”, Harry mouths silently, watching the birds twittering outside, “ _but_ _love_.”

He slithers out, no clothes on. A red woolen sweater tied on Harry’s slender hips as he sings, voice goes from flowing lyrics to broken choirs. Harry slows his humming, suddenly whistles high, higher and higher without missing the rhythm, strikes every note with fluency. Arms out, as Harry spins wildly into the kitchen like a tornado. He is flying, with Icarus wings sprouting wide on his back, towards the blinding sun.

Then he falls.

The song ends, every last note fades, leaving burnt marks hang in the rough air like molten wax. Harry closes his eyes, let the morning light pierces through his heart. A warm body smashes against Harry’s back, hands like rope close tightly around his waist. The green eye man breathes out. No worries at all.

 

However, sometimes, in those off-moments, Harry feels robust. The absolute divine power of those who hold no control on their behalves – the tasteless powder of golden roses and grapes that drives men and women, all the same, to the iron throne and to the tomb. ‘Dionysus’s worshippers’, Harry muses, legs swinging underneath the table. Lana Del Rey’s voice drowsily drags in the background, making his eyelids bloom with sugary pink and baby blue flowers.

Harry smile goofily, and closes his lips around Tom’s finger, swallows the offered piece of bacon.

 

“Harry, no.”

“Harry, yes.”

Tom pinches the bridge of his nose, quietly asking for more patience as he pushes the cart forward, desperately chases Harry down the aisles. It is Monday night. Meaning: not so much people, asides from broke college kids and last-minute shoppers. Harry has disappeared in the sweet aisle, bouncing frantically with two bags of marshmallow and matcha Kit Kat on his arms. The orange cloak is flapping to every step he takes like butterfly wings, as Harry skips, cackling happily when Tom arrives with both his feet on the cart like an oversized kid, angrily hisses at his shorter lover.

“No, Harry. You haven’t finished the last bag of marshmallows. Yet. Again.”

“But Tooom”, Harry whines, hands clutching the plastic bag, “It’s called ‘reservation’. What if I want more? What if the apocalypse starts and people go crazy and you can’t buy me more candies when I want one? What if there is a brilliant cure for cancer in marshmallows? Huh? We will be out of stock! Imagine the pain! The loss! The disappointment!”

Tom sighs, defeated. “Just one bag.”

“Three. With extra cream puffs.”

“Two and I’ll let Hedwig sleep with us tonight.”

Harry bites his lips, calculating.

“Deal. Seal it?”

Tom’s lips quirk slightly before he bends down, kisses Harry chastely.

“Oh oh oh blueberry cupcakes.”

“Harry, no.”

 

Nagini is crouching near his feet when Harry gets stuck in writer-block at 1 AM. Tom is off to nowhere (actually it’s Milan, business trip and yada yada Harry lost track of Tom’s message while playing Candy Crush on his phone). Luna comes everyday to check that Harry doesn’t blow up the house, or feed Hedwig Tom’s horrendous coffee. It’s fine, it’s cool. Tom, being an overactive mom/boyfriend/housemate, calls Harry once, or twice, or thrice a day. He even checks the cameras and puts a load of cash on the guard’s desk to make sure that Harry is, absolutely, safe.

Because no one (except for Hermione, she can be a lioness sometimes, but she’s currently busy with her new job; or Tom, but he’s no here anyway) is available to babysit Harry, Severus Snape takes the position.

All hell break loose, of course.

 

Tom opens the apartment door, uses his foot to push Hedwig back as he walks in. The white dog barks happily, her paws scratch on Tom’s pant, leaving yellow streaks of paint on the fabric.

Ah, home sweet home.

But there is no sound. No Harry’s music blasting. No Harry’s slippers lying in the puddle of mud near the sofa. No Harry’s frantic footstep. No Harry’s sloppy kisses and bone-crushing hugs.

In fact, the house is deadly silent.

Tom’s heart drops. His hand goes to the baseball bat hidden behind the door, as he creeps through the living room. He hears blurry voices behind closed doors, and swings the bat as a figure appears around the corner.

The intruder catches the weapon with fine reflex, and Tom’s eyes narrow when he can’t continue his attack. Still, Tom raises his knee unexpectedly, kicks swiftly at the man’s lower body. A grunt breathes out, as Tom points his bat at the intruder, coldly hisses.

“Where’s Harry?”

Then the light pops up, and Tom sees Viktor Krum groaning on the floor.

 

The German, still forever a gentleman, accepts Tom’s offered hand with little offence taken, points at the bedroom.

“In there?”

Krum nods. “Vith the girls.”

Tom suppresses a shudder. ‘The girls’ sounds very, very suspicious coming from Krum’s mouth, especially when the German’s eyes blown wide like he just sees his grandma’s knick knack. Worse, Severus Snape slithers through the door with a pale Draco Malfoy, both of them hold several brands of alcohol.

Malfoy Jr. wheezes out a bitter laugh at Tom’s raised eyebrow, gestures wildly at the closed door. The three men pass through Tom, all slumber down on sofa and start raiding the beverages. Snape’s shoulders are tense up, ready to fight or flee – that Tom doesn’t need to find out.

And so, the Great Savior slams open the door, just to see Hermione pulling a fishnet stocking on a raven hair woman.

 

The scream doesn’t come forcefully out from his mouth, but the slight squeak betrays Tom. He hears Luna giggling softly as the unknown woman looks up, smiles bashfully at him. Her green eyes look astoundingly beautiful, and quite familiar if you ask.

The woman stands up, her black chiffon dress flows sweetly. Her hair is a delicate fountain of ink and glowing crystal flowers, floating almost erratically down her waist. A silver earring adorns her right earlobe, and she bites her lips coyly, a small smirk hidden. She takes a step forward, hips swaying. The matching bracelet clack on her thin wrists to every movement. Hermione slowly retreats with Luna, leaving the odd pair alone.

Tom can’t breathe. A steel ball drops into the depth of his gut, and when the woman stops right in front of him, heels clicking on the wooden floor, he croaks out hoarsely.

“Harry?”

The woman laughs. “Mister Riddle,” she winks, “my name is Harriet Potter.”

 

Tom bolts out the door later with Harry’s, no, it’s Harriet’s laughter ringing through the house. Luna passes him a glass of bourbon, politely hints at cherry lipstick stains on Tom’s collar. He accepts both, gratefully.

 

Harry loves the cross-dressing. Someday, he greets Tom at the kitchen under the Harriet persona and watches his man crumble. It is funny to see Tom’s cool manner dissolves into dust when seeing Harriet in delicious outfits, but anyway, a little control on his lover is what Harry enjoys like fine wine on hot summer night.

‘Speaking of hot’, Harry mused, carefully dapping more glitter on his cheekbones. Tom gets used to Harriet, playing along without any questions. Hell, he even purchases a nice pair of high heels that matches to Harriet’s new dress on Christmas. Harriet, Harry. They are quite a pair.

Sometimes, Tom looks up and sees a lover. Harry is grateful for that. So does Harriet.

It isn’t the sheer want to bloom like Lily in “The Danish Girl”. It is more like a game, another persona of Harry that Tom has learnt to cherish. When the younger man was first brought to Tom’s apartment, he claimed that his godfather was alive and looking for Prongslet every full moon. Tom didn’t have the heart to take Harry to the graveyard, instead, he bought Harry a stuffed black dog that had Sirius’s wolfish grin, along with a big turquoise blanket – the exact shade of Remus Lupin’s eyes (who was their history teacher when they were in high school. He died 3 years later due to cancer, and Harry once used his eye colour for his main character, as a memory to their favourite teacher).

Tom understands, not entirely, but enough. Harry creates fictional characters and tries to put himself in their shoes. Harry paints and draws with cheap crayons for kids, sometimes using sauces from the kitchen to finish a portrait. Harry dances and sings in early mornings, because it is the quietest time in their home. Harry hates being lonely. And now, Harry experiences with makeup and lingerie.

It isn’t as weird as the time the green eye male brought home 107 wind chimes, opened doors and windows and sang to the tickkary-tack-took delirious orchestra for hours.

So, cross-dressing. Whatever comes next, Tom is ready.

 

Or maybe not.

It is clear that Harry holds more control than both of them thought. The younger male vanishes after lunch, yelling something about a favour. Tom pays little mind on it, currently narrowing his eyes to examine a new hole on their tablecloth, which he is absolutely sure didn’t existed 10 minutes ago. Oh well, he doesn’t like the colour anyway, turquoise is so boring. And don’t get him start on the stripe pattern, really, Tom doesn’t know what had possessed him into buying that ridiculous cloth. He has standards for heaven’s sake.

Maybe it’s the green eye. Maybe it’s Maybelline.

‘Oh fuck’, Tom blows out a shaky laugh at his thought. No more makeup commercials with Harry.

 

Harry goes home after his shift at Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes – the awfully excellent joke shop owned by the twins. Lovely products for brilliant pranks (somehow, Tom always gets away without falling into Harry’s traps. Even Hermione got stroked once!), lovely bosses who live to nurture Harry’s creativity with their adventures. Lovely children come and leave with huge smiles and mischievous light in their big, adorable eyes.

There is always a “but”. You’re awesome but I already have a girlfriend. You’re too kind but I am not worth it. You’re correct but here let me point out several holes in your argument.

Harry goes home with an angry frown because the day was lovely, but…

Rita Skeeter just _had_ to show up and scared the customers with her flashy camera and awkward questions about his new release “Blue Hills”. She even had the guts to poke her nose into Harry and Tom’s love life, hungrily eyed the shorter man’s finger for a ring. And she dared to ask about his eyeliner! As Fred stormed out to prevent a cat fight, George pulled Harry to the storage while quoting Mulan.

"Dishonour! Dishonour her family! Dishonour her cow!”

Harry whispered. “I don’t think she has a cow.”

“Dishonour her camera. There, off you go. I’ll give you a day-off, since you already charmed our beloved Hestia into buying all of our Otters Fizzy Orange Juice.”, the redhead tsked, pushing Harry out of the shop.

“Bye Harry! See you tomorrow.”

 

Back to the story, because Harry always wants a detailed story. He goes home, opens the door and waltzes in just to see his lover passed out in the hall, eyes squeezed shut and sweat pouring from his temper.

For the first time, Harry feels like dying. Or lost, or even betrayed.

 

“Cancer.” The doctor bluntly says, and Harry goes deaf.

It is just a small tumour near Tom’s spine, but that already scares Harry to death. They say that a surgery can remove the urgent danger. Even the Malfoys has come to make threats and bribes, already planning out exits. Severus appears out of nowhere, gently guides a motionless Harry out of the emergency room. In fact, almost everyone gradually shows up like colourless shadows, surrounding Harry and Tom’s bed. Harry’s soul is hanging on a red thread that threats to split. He can’t see or hear, only the stench of Tom’s shampoo and hospital’s antiseptic lures his eyes to sleep. Goosebumps erupt. And Harry’s shoulders are opened, spreading his wings widely under the blazing sun, ready to fly.

Tom’s wax can’t hold him back. Harry doesn’t cry, or scream, or hyperventilate. Hermione wraps a blanker around him, promises to take care of Hedwig and Nagini when she retrieves Harry’s toiletries. Harry munches on his pudding, simply waiting for the red sign to stop staring at him – it starts to be a little tat of annoying. Why not blue? Why not caramel brown? Must it be red?

 

“Mister Potter?” The nurse calls out. Harry’s head snaps up, and his intense stare speaks louder, faster than a scream. The brunette woman gulps, trembles slightly like a deer caught in blinding light of a passing car. The green eye man tilts his head, lips moving.

“Yes?”

“M-mister Riddle is-is…”

Harry raises his eyebrow. “Dead? I’ll doubt that. Get out.”

He stands up suddenly, barely acknowledges the girl’s sputtering. It is already 6 in the morning, he should wake Tom up. They would be late for breakfast if he doesn't.

 

Harry couldn’t remember his Mother. Madame Rose showed him a picture of her once when she first came to the orphanage, leaving her newborn child, a name and a photo of her. Lily Evans was her name, and red was her hair colour. She was a nurse as far as her uniform could tell, and she died one week later after Harry’s name was written on Remarouse Orphanage ‘s list.

The word “Father” seemed to be a damn curse, because there wasn’t a chance that the billionaire James Potter – despite Harry had grown up to be a splitting image of him – was his father. Things happened when the ten years old child ran away from his gloomy dorm to the fancier neighborhood, just to see the man and his family down the street. His wife was a beautiful woman with long blonde hair, and their precious daughter was more adorable than pictures of little fairies that Harry once saw in the old library.

He never seek for his heritage again. However, Harry learnt that lilies was his favourite flower.

The orphanage was a nice place, if there had been more light. Still, Harry wormed his way out of troubles. ‘Precious child’, the head mistress exclaimed whenever he scored a test. ‘Freak’, said the boys, because being good, or intelligent, or nice wasn’t fair to them. ‘Lonely person’, Harry mumbled under his breath, playing a docile kid.

 

He closed his mind and let the words unspoken. For years, he became what people wanted him to be. For years, he made friends to people who wanted nothing more than his fame. His fame – a delightful, non-existent thing that only thrived through his sweat and boiled blood.

For years, he was surrounded by bubbles. Only Tom Riddle could pierced them with his needle. Harry’s dearest treasure. Harry’s greatest enemy.

Harry’s joy and Harry’s hope. They made Tom in flesh and bones.

People thought that Harry was mad (well, they weren’t _wrong_ , but let’s not talk about it here). People thought that Tom was the villain (again, not entirely _wrong_ ) and Harry was the sweet lamb (they were _wrong_ this time).

‘Bitch please’, Harry smiled when Tom carried him out that ‘place’.

He was the conqueror, and dear Tom was the golden crown. People didn’t know it, did they?

 

_“Oh lady, running down to the riptide_

_Taken away to the dark side_

_I wanna be your left hand man_

_I love you_

_When you’re singing that song_

_And I got a lump in my throat ‘cause…”_

Harry sings, carefully weavers his hand to Tom’s. The sun cracks up night sky – a broken surface of coloured glass that sparks red and orange. Purple fades, blue seems to melt down. A white ray springs up like children’s laughter, dancing wickedly on clouds.

Then there is a thrilled note. Harry’s eyes close as the bird landing on the table, its feathers wet with morning dew. The creature chirps – the string of sound splashing over Harry’s unfinished song like falling diamonds. It flaps its wings and flies away in a mere second, then the song continues.

_“You’re gonna sing the words wrong.”_

Tom has stayed unconscious for 5 days. On the sixth, Harry wakes up when Tom’s fingers scratching his hair lovingly, and they smile at each other.

“It’s cliché as fuck, Tommy dear.”

Tom’s lips quirks under the oxygen mask. Harry’s head nuzzles his hand for more petting.

“You’re not going to leave me soon right?”

Tom rolls his eyes.

“Good!”, Harry places his chin on Tom’s fingers, “I would hate to finish your coffee stock and manage your funeral without any accidents.”

His lover’s eyes brighten up, the red freckles on dark brown pupils swirling amusedly. Like a nightingale’s unexpected visit.

 

“Really, Tom?”, Harry groans out, shoving a pillow on Tom’s head. The taller man hushes loudly.

“It was your idea, darling. Now keep your feet still for me.”

Harry whines, dropping his head on the mattress while Tom – Dark Lord with scary glare and royal posture – stressfully paints another layer on Harry’s nails. Tom lets out a distressed sound before wiping off the ruin paint. Harry is so sleepy – his phone keeps falling on his face in the middle of destroying rows and rows of candies. However, Tom Riddle is being a perfectionist and loyal boyfriend today, so it is 11:46 PM and the battle of Tom versus nail painting is still raging highly.

Sometimes, Harry really wonders about his life choice.

“Tom, it’s late. I’m tired. Just pour it on my nails and clean the spare paint later. In the morning preferably.”

There is no answer.

So Harry, being a lazy cat, wiggles his bum out of Tom’s lap. He stretches, the T-shirt rides up to show off a fleck of skin and tattoo. Still, Tom, being a perfect gentleman, keeps his eyes and hands on Harry’s toe. The green eye man glares at the acetone bottle lying innocently.

“Don’t pout, sweetheart.”, Tom finally raises his head, thoroughly examines the painted nail. He gently places Harry’s feet down, teasingly bends down near his lover’s crotch. Biting on Harry’s jean zipper, Tom winks at Harry’s blushing face before pulling the metal piece down, and down, and down.

It’s hard to have sex while your nails are wet with paint, but Harry nails it eventually. No puns intended.

 

“Don’t leave me.”, Harry exhales, watching the first break of dawn outside their window. Tom is still sleeping, but his arm gathers Harry closer, and the younger man beams.

 

Someday, they don’t talk. Harry spends his day playing with Hedwig in the neighbor park, only comes home when his muscles shouting from the chase and ball-fetch game. Someday, Harry bakes cookies and drinks milk straight from the bottle (again, no puns intended). Someday, Tom bring a bouquet of white lilies home, and Harry takes picture of the flowers till they rot and get thrown in trashcan.

Someday, Tom says ‘I love you’. Someday, Harry replies with a kiss.

 

Tom flinches, wide awake to see Harry bury himself in an oversized sweater, hands rubbing over his scarred arms till they burn red.

They don’t speak. Words are meant to be spilled, not wearily placed in these types of situation. Tom knows it perfectly.

He walks around the room, closing the door and opening windows. It is raining. He let the curtain flows, then returns to bed. Harry silently raises his arms like a child begging for his mother, and Tom hikes the younger man on his lap, placing his chin on top of the black mob of hair. The yellow canary blanket twines around them, keeping warmth in and cool wind out. Tom rocks them slowly, fingers moving absently on Harry’s scrawny back.

Harry presses his mouth on Tom’s Adam apple, breathing evenly. They falls asleep.

 

Harriet takes Tom’s hand as they enter the shop, her rosy cheeks hidden underneath black curls of her hair. The couple approach the aisles, Harriet’s heels clicking against the marble floor.

“So.”

“So.”, Tom repeats, bracing himself.

“This one.”, the green eye woman waves a tester lipstick near Tom’s nose, while inspecting another model, “Or…”. She pauses, poking a cherry coloured (Tom does wish he is colourblind sometimes) lipstick with her well-manicured nails, “that one.”

Tom sighs deeply, secretly wished for a hole to hide.

“Harriet, baby.”, he speaks slowly, “I know nothing about makeup.”

Harriet smiles brightly, points the tester at Tom.

“That’s why I need you.”, she replies, “Now, be a dear and put that frown away. Give me an honest answer, will you?”

She holds two tubes up. “Silky Satin”, Tom reads.

“Or Sheer Voile.”, Harriet adds, looking up expectedly. Tom sees no differences. Though, he gestures at the former, just to see Harriet puts the latter in her shopping cart.

Fine, damn fine. She asks for it.

 

“Are you paying back at me?”, Harry sighs loudly for the thirteenth times, making customers to shush him.

He pouts, kicking Tom’s calf as the taller man bends down on the case. He then pulls out two bottle of wine, waving them gently in front of Harry.

“So.”

Harry knows it. Fuck this gorgeous, sexy, lovely bastard!

“So?” Tom smirks dangerously. “Mven 2008 or Côte du Rhône 2012?”

“I see no difference.”

“Come on, Harry. A little _help_ here?”

The younger man bristles. Tom is tapping his foot quietly till Harry finally gives up.

“2012.”

“We have oysters tonight right?”

“Yeah.”, Harry draws slowly, apparently confused.

Tom’s lips twitch viciously. He pats on Harry’s head, moving to other aisles.

“White wine then. Come on Harry, the sooner you help me pick the right bottle, the sooner we can leave.”

“Fuck you.”

An elderly woman throws Harry a glare as he reluctantly follows Tom. Damn bastard!

“I’ll kick you ass later, Riddle.”

Tom’s chuckles leave a soft bitter taste in Harry’s throat.

 

“English.”

“I love you.”

“French”

“Je t’aime.”

“Chinese.”

Harry’s eyebrow scrunch up. “Wo ai ni.”

“Japanese”

“Aishiteru.”

“Uhm….Italian.”

“Ti amo, ti amo, ti amo~”

“Please stop singing. Vietnamese?”

His teeth puncture blunt marks on pale rose lips.

“Anh yêu em?”

“Depends, Harry. Try again.”

“Em yêu anh?”

“Continue. Portuguese?”

“Eu te amo.”

“Korean.”

“Oppa ~ Saranghae ~”

Tom coughs. “German.”

“Ich liebe dich”

“Dutch.”

“Jeg elsker dig.”

"Harriese.”

Harry smiles.

“ I take the pain. Spill them into words. Colour them. Feed them to you.”

 

“Blindfold And Headphones” becomes Harry’s next success. What is more surreal than believable story of a blind girl meeting a deaf boy, their disabilities speak louder, faster than words, pictures and sounds?

Harry hides his victorious smirk behind a glass of champagne at the press meeting, eyes locked with Tom’s. His shoes are scattered under the table, a sock toe dances lightly on Tom’s kneecap. Tom openly scowls at his pâté plate, only a hint of amusement gleams intensively in his pupil before he looks away to greet a well-known publisher. Harry’s feet shifts, pressing almost childishly on smooth fabric, and slowly, sensually, lit up hot embers, burning through the calm façade of Tom.

The writer takes another sip. The bubble liquid pours down his stomach, shatter his bones as Harry swallows, tears swelled up from the gas. It tastes like butterfly’s wings – soft, vigorous, and tempting. The last drop smoothes along his lungs, cuts through the veil of tiring posture. His shoulders slumber slightly, allows him to preen prettily under his eyelashes at Tom.

They stops at the toilet inside the conference hall, hands moving and lips gaping. Tom’s hand slots on the jut of Harry’s hipbones, slides down to hitch up his lover. Harry finds him pressing against the pristine wall, thighs locked around Tom’s hips, ankles closed. Tom nuzzles Harry’s neck, kisses a faint mole on his jaw line. Harry exhales shakily, fingers pulling on Tom’s perfect hair. Another kiss drops on Harry’s Adam apple, and Tom’s lips move to caress his lover’s earlobes, blowing warm breaths that liquefy his spine.

The business man raises his chin, dotting small touches on Harry’s nose. It’s ticklish. In his arms, Harry feels drunk and light-headed, his lower body reacts to every movement they make. In his arms, Harry is pliant and safe. Tom brings his fingers up to Harry’s swollen lips, hissing proudly when the writer licks them, his pink tongue sweeps once, twice, then pulls the digits in his heated mouth. He lets Tom’s finger fall out – glistering with spit and lukewarm. Tom growls softly, biting on Harry’s lips as the smaller man cycles his hips, ignites burning desire in both of them. They devour their moaning, breathe in the cologne and something tangy, like marmalade on toast.

‘It is almost true love’, Harry notes, whimpering as Tom pushes inside him. His back arches, and aches – all fade into dull pain and radiant bliss. Tom fucks him nice and slow, let Harry’s nails tear through his skin and leave red angry marks. The climax rushes in, pushing Harry off the edge and they tumble down, down, down.

 

“Don’t leave me.”, Tom hesitantly mutters, finger tracing on Harry’s golden scars. His lover tilts his head, wondering, then inviting, patiently waiting. So Tom leans on, and presses kisses on Harry’s lush lips. Once, twice, till they stop counting together.

 

The surgery drills a hole in Tom’s peaceful life. Not literally, but close.

Tom’s back scorches fire and freeze ice, especially when he sits too long typing on his computer. Harry purchases bags of herb, massage oil and ice packs to ease the pain. Someday, Tom takes a few days off because of his cramping, and Harry fusses around Tom like a mother hen. When the pain is almost intolerant, Harry slips inside the cover, numbly massages Tom’s vertebras.

“It’s alright”, he says, reassuringly latching on Tom’s back. Harry hides his tears with big sunny smiles and coffee in the morning.

“I’m here.”, he says, kissing Tom’s temper when the taller man shaking in pain. He places hot stones on the pinkish scars, forcing Tom to leave his computer every 30 minutes. Harry searches for massage videos (he once clicked on a porn site, and it resulted in Tom holding for his dear life while Harry rode him all night long) and practice them one by one, almost making it a ritual.

When summer arrives, they go swimming, carefully pluck Tom out of his cramps with fiery exercises. The doctors and advisors are amazed with the process, and it seems to go perfectly well.

 

If there isn’t a ‘but’, there will be a ‘seem’. September comes, and Tom’s phone rings at breakfast. Harry bangs his head on the table.

Apparently, some of Harry’s fans see them kissing in the park. It’s no big deal – everyone has brains knows that Harry and Tom is canon. They come and go with each other, and Harry even joked about marrying Tom one day, having kids and a white-fenced house.

The problem is they haven’t have any statement about their relationship and past. Harry’s past is well-hidden thanks to Hermione and Lucius, however, the press finds out the writer’s medical struggle.

The bomb goes off. Harry’s Twitter loses 2000 followers and gains 5600 more after the news broke out. The green eye man becomes a sassy, nerdy version of Kim Kardashian on the internet, still, it’s not until Rita publishes a full page of Harry’s ‘poor, pitiful, manipulated’ past that gets Tom’s rage to burst out.

It is greater than 4th July’s fireworks, in deed.

 

On the next book signing event, Harry drops another bomb. Literally. He has the bowling ball painted and stuffed inside a bag, and drops it when the cameras light flashing maniacally. It crashes dramatically, of course. Harry is damn proud that he doesn’t damage the floor (Tom would spank him if he does anyway).

The crowd goes dead silent, as Harry plants his hand on the table to put a few inches on him, looking down like a bird of prey eyeing its next victim. Cliché, but effective. He has to thank Tom for that posture later. With sex, preferably.

 

“Evening, guys and girls.” Harry smiles wolfishly, making the atmosphere crack in heavy silence. No more innocent faces. The fans are looking at him with expectation, and a tad of fear is sweet like whipping cream.

The writer tilts his head, points at his chest. A sign of sharing.

“I’m bisexual.”

He pays no mind to the outburst of whispers, keeps his face blank of any emotions. Like marble and seashells. Like disappointment.

“I am in love with a man.”, he speaks, slow and clear and loud enough to cut through the shimmering madness underneath. They stop talking. “And I do not see how it affect my works.”

“People makes me a cinnamon roll. I can assure you that I am not. I went to jail and alyssum for my errors in the head. I burnt down my abandoned orphanage because criminals used it to rape girls and boys, to get high on drugs, to bury bodies and bloody knives. I used cocaine and morphine patches to ease my pain.”, he rolls up his sleeves, presents golden scars and cigarette’s burnt marks.

“I am the Boy Who Lived. And Tom, he is my Savior.”

Harry says coolly, his skin reflects the artificial light almost like melting wax and feathers blending together under the sun. The dauntless Icarus, flying towards his beloved sun. And he burns.

“You can judge me, but you don’t have the right. ‘Blindfold And Headphones’ will be my last piece of the ‘Unknown’ series.”.

Raising hand to stop the crowd from asking and yelling, Harry leans back, eyes turn glassy and mocking.

“I quit. Those who took the second chance don’t deserve a third.”

 

It is chaos until Tom shuts the door, holding Harry close to his heart as the younger male cries himself to exhaustion. They don’t sleep, or talk. Harry had put too much faith in humanity – it isn’t a taboo to have a little faith, right? So why is his heart trembling like a sparrow in the cage? Why tears and disappointment, not anger and rooted hatred? Why now, when Tom and Harry seem to fall apart and weaver close, hate and love each other fiercely with their own flaws and brightest light?

“Pourquoi, Tom?”

“C’est la vie.”, Tom quotes, feeding Harry a spoonful of tomato soup.

 

Someday, Harry might write again. Someday, Tom feels like dying, burning, waiting for his Icarus to fly, to overthrow, to stand by his flames.

Someday, they blind themselves with love. Icarus fell and died in seething waves, but Harry lives on with his Savior. Eternal is a right word, it seems.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos or comment below. I'll continue this work if there is somebody like it. If not, the story may end here, for the best I think.

**Author's Note:**

> So, how was it? Please leave a kudos or a short comment if you like it. I'll try to do another chapter based on this AU, well, if some people like it. We can also stop at here anyway.  
> Thank you so much for reading.


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